To Hell I Go A'Riding
by CinderDreams
Summary: Kyle doesn't know what provoked him to drive Stan from Colorado to Florida to see Wendy when he's definitely hot for Stan, but he's very much aware of the fact that this could be his best chance to win Stan over by any means possible.
1. Chapter 1

Stan slammed his clenched fist straight into the green walls of my bedroom. As much as it hurt me to watch him cry out in agony, I smirked silently while sitting comfortably on my bed. Stan had his back turned to me. He turned towards me, his face a mess of angst and pain. His hand was already starting to swell at the knuckles, turning red from the impact of the drywall. I could see the paint chipping around the small well that was created from his fist. I stood up from my bed and walked over to him. He turned away as I reached out to him, my hand missing him and pressing on to the indent in the wall.

"God damn it," he whispered, raising his hand to his mouth and suckling on it gently. Afraid that he might hit the wall again, I left the wall and took his free hand carefully. "Kyle, she went to fucking Florida."

"You can't help that Stan. You know she has to work," I replied weakly.

"You don't understand, Kyle! I called her work because she didn't leave a hotel number and she didn't answer her cell phone! They said that she took a weeklong vacation!" Stan pulled his hand out of mine and pinched the bridge of his nose, an old habit left over from his childhood. His face was a jumble of anger and confusion; I hadn't seen him this much of a mess since Wendy had left him for Token in elementary school.

Stan slammed his fist into the wall again. I felt the floor shake, and saw him begin to tremble. Stan didn't cry often, and natural instinct kicked in and he kicked the wall. The molding cracked with the impact, and I realized that I had forgotten how strong Stan was. His arms still had the tone of a football player, and his kick was one that would make any high school coach proud. His broad shoulders were rippling underneath his tank top; my house was 80 degrees despite the fact that it was the dead of winter.

"Stan, are you maybe taking this a little too hard? I mean, I know you just got back together with her, and maybe you slept with her and had a great time, but Wendy isn't exactly the housewife type. You know she never acts like she's in a committed relationship." I felt myself take a step back as Stan stood up from the bed, bounding over and grabbing me by the collar of my shirt. I whimpered slightly as he pulled me into a position so that I could look him straight in his bright blue eyes, darkened with the residue of tears. His angelic face was marked with tear tracks slipping down to his chiseled chin.

Stan's voice lowered to a harsh whisper.

"Kyle, you may be a fag, you may never know what it is to fucking love a girl, but I know. And she's gone." He dropped me, and my knees collapsed under me. Like a wounded bird, I looked up at him with doe eyes, terrified at his angry words that tore me. He knew nothing.

Stan blinked, and looked down at me. He began to see color again as the red cleared. He leaned down and picked me up easily. I stood up, no longer cowering, regaining my composure.

"Kyle," he began quietly. I looked at him, staring, with my heart beating rapidly. "I'm sorry." He reached out to me and grabbed me in a breath-taking hug. It hurt me both physically and emotionally; Stan could crush boulders with his bare hands and hearts with his uncensored words.

"It's okay, Stan," I said, not judgmentally. I returned his embrace wholeheartedly. "I'm okay. You aren't. I'm sorry I said that Stan. You need time to cool down." Stan released me, and I sucked in air indiscreetly while he ran his hands over his face. He was beautiful, and I felt the color return to my cheeks.

Stan was gorgeous, with this bodybuilder body and his firm ass. He was the epitome of sexy. I said nothing, shaking my head.

"Stan," I began again. "I wish you would just let her go already. You're a rebound to her."

"I know that," he replied, "but she's so right for me, Kyle. I've loved her forever, and I want to keep loving her, but she's so difficult and stubborn!"

"I know that dude, but you can't hold onto her forever, especially if she's lying about where she is." I sat down on my floor, always the voice of reason. He was stunning, even when distressed, and I fought my personal demons that wailed for the justice of comforting him physically. "Do you want a hug?" I gave this offer weakly, and Stan looked at me like I had just grown an extra eyeball.

"Dude, since when do you ask me for hugs? I was kidding when I called you a fag." Stan sat down across from me. "Cartman's a fag, dude. Don't let me lose you too." Stan tackled me, and I 'oof-ed' as I hit the floor. I pressed upwards in an effort to push him off of me, but he looked down at me with eyes that made me weak with hunger. His lips pressed out, pouting perfectly in the same shape that made them seem friendly, and I wondered what he would do if I kissed him. Instead, he reared up, pretending to bring his knee up into my balls. I kicked at his stomach, knowing that his rock-hard abs wouldn't feel anything. He flew backwards, mocking my attempts, and I seized the opportunity to pounce on top of him.

"Get off of me, dude," he said, pushing me over playfully. His flipped his hair, and I rolled my eyes.

"Gay," I said.

"Not as gay as Cartman," he pointed out. He stood up.

"Stop comparing us to him, dude," I said, careful to keep myself from whining. "He's fat, we aren't. He's after Butters, we weren't. Ew, dude. He's gay… we aren't." I prayed to Moses that Stan didn't notice my hesitation when I pointed out that we—he—wasn't gay. Stan said nothing—instead, he stood up and walked over to my bed. He grabbed his jacket.

"I gotta go dude. I've got work for a few hours, and then I'm going to go home and mope." Stan smiled, running towards the door and kicking off of it at the last second. He flipped backwards, and landed with a thud on his shoulder blades. I gasped, and scurried over to him.

"Stan, are you okay?" I asked, not sure how much worry was too much. He laughed, sitting up on his elbows.

"Fuck, that hurt," he said, wincing slightly as I hauled him back up to his feet. I shook my head.

"You're an idiot," I said, rolling my eyes as he smiled slightly and ruffled my jew-fro. The heat in my house had caused my hair to begin to frizz into its natural style once again.

"And you're a giant fuzz-ball," he teased. "Go do some homework or something, nerd." He headed down the stairs as I adjusted the thermostat to a chilly 75. My mom would never notice the difference.

At the bottom of my stairs, Stan had begun to tie his shoelaces. His features were concentrated solely on the fact that his shoelaces were in need of fastening. I smiled at him, racing down the stairs and leaping onto his back, pressing off and landing on the floor easily.

He stands up and walks over to me, nonchalantly throwing me onto the couch. The couch rocks, hitting the wall, and Ike peers over from the kitchen doorway. He says nothing, disappearing back into the kitchen.

"Bye, Kyle," Stan says. He seems enlightened, and I know he's feeling better, even if it's just a little bit. Then he left without another word, knowing full well that I was aware of him leaving.

This was one of the things I liked about Stan when he and Wendy had a rough patch; I made him feel better. The feeling of being useful for him when he was feeling like shit was one of the perks of our friendship—I seemed to have had that effect on him since the third or fourth time they had broken up. However, this was also around the time where I had started to get hot for him.

I reached down and rubbed my hard dick, tossing slightly on the couch with discomfort. Ike walked in, and I reached for the remote.

"You sicken me, Kyle," Ike said. I turned the television on, ignoring him. "You look like you're going to jump him at any minute."

"Shut up, Ike," I replied. I tossed him the remote. "Keep out of it. He's got a girlfriend."

"And you've got it bad," Ike teased. His black hair, so unlike my own, was tied back in a small ponytail. He looked like a hippie.

I stood up quickly and started towards the stairs. I heard Ike begin a soliloquy mocking Shakespeare.

"Fuck off, Ike!" I snapped, losing my temper.

Up the stairs, into my bed, on top of the sheets, inhaling his lingering scent.

I felt myself begin to feel nauseous, and realized another dizzy spell was coming on. I hated it, but Ike was completely right.

I had it fucking bad for my best friend, and I was hard as fuck. I reached down into my pants, wiggling my dick out into the open and began to jack myself off. Images of Stan crusaded through my head, images of him both clothed and naked. I breathed quietly, and I wondered what Stan would have thought if he had seen my semen at that very moment, brought on by him. Suddenly, I stopped myself, thinking for a moment, but not lost in thought. I continued, and I came. And then I realized what a douche I was for being in love with my best friend, and I rolled over, and vomited.

* * *

**Constructive criticism is appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

Wiping the dribble from my mouth, I looked down at the disgusting mess that I had made. My rug was completely destroyed, now the color of kosher and broccoli.

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, my eyes widening as I digested the sight below me. I panicked slightly, wondering when my mother would come home from work. The taste was wretched in my mouth. I pushed off my bed, avoiding the mess, and ran into my bathroom. Running the faucet, I brought the tap water up to my mouth, swishing it around and cringing. Opening the medicine cabinet, I found the mouthwash and be rid myself of the remaining offender.

I walked back to my room, aware of the vomit still left for me to discard of. Walking over to my destroyed rug, I folded it up as carefully as I could and tramped down the stairs and out the door to wear we kept out garbage buckets. Tossing the rug into the can, I jogged back to the house, freezing form the translation from boiling to freezing.

Once back inside the kitchen, I pondered what to do with myself. No homework to finish, no Cartman to harass, no Kenny entertain me, no Stan to lust after…

It was a split second before I realized how completely and utterly pathetic I was. I needed to do something about my problem.

I'll never know what provoked me to go talk to Ike about Stan. From the beginning, Ike could read me like a book. In fifth grade, he decided to grow his naturally fluffy Canadian hair out, taming it into a straight, silky, soft, sexy, grab-able sex symbol. Every girl was after him, and when they turned him down, they came after me (and believe me, there were some girls with nice asses after Ike). So when all of these girls started camping out in front of our house waiting for either of us to emerge, Ike asked me what I thought. The conversation went as follows:

"So, all of those chicks are after me, Kyle." Ike looked at me, neither proud nor scared.

"I can see that, Ike. Tell them to go home if you're not interested in them. Mom's going to be pissed off." I wasn't jealous of him at all. Stan had been upstairs at the time of this conversation, and he had asked me to go get us snacks before we vegged in front of my new Play Station. This was before I realized that I had… romantic feelings for Stan.

"When are you going to fuck Stan?" Ike asked next, and I was shocked. That's understandable, isn't it? Ike had been cursing since he was in kindergarten, and now that he was in seventh grade, every boy was hormonally crazed. Except for Ike, who had the hormones of a fifth grader and the mentality of a college graduate.

"I'm not going to fuck Stan, Ike. We've talked about this already. I'm not gay." I felt my heart start to pound as years of Cartman's abuse infiltrated my mind, allowing me to keep calm in front of my younger brother. "We're Super Best Friends—"

"Gay," Ike said, flipping his hair in a way that only he could pull off without looking like a total fag.

"What do you mean gay?" I snapped, my face flushing.

"I _mean,_ you call him your 'Super Best Friend.' _Still._ Seriously. How old are you?" He looked at me with his beady eyes. "Bullshit."

"Whatever, Ike," I said, rolling my eyes. "Go get some friends before you judge me." I slammed the bowl of chips down on the table and left the room. Then I turned around, walked back, contemplated spitting on my younger brother, grabbed the sustenance still located in the bowl, and flipped Ike off.

"I see that you forgot something," he said in response to my gesture. "Go put that hand to good use."

Despite the tension between my brother and me during this time as he reached adolescence and I was just peaking at it, Ike had the kind of understanding that only brothers can, even if we weren't blood related. As things got worse, I gradually started to go to Ike more and more.

As to be expected, he gradually started to get more and more annoying about the whole subject, which was upsetting, because I could write a novel about Stan's good qualities and barely get a page of Ike's. But Ike was a different kind of person with a respectable point of view, and so I followed most of his advice to a T.

When I heard the front door slam, I walked out of the kitchen and into our living room. The television was off, and there was a pair of high heels thrown hastily in a jumble on the floor. Cocking my eyebrow, I heard tell-tale shrieks from my brother's room. My mom hadn't been home after all; Ike would never risk his momma's boy reputation by fucking a girl in our house when our mom was home.

Quietly making my way up the stairs, I stopped at the second door on the right and quietly opened the door. The first thing I saw was a mess of blonde hair and tits. Big, fat, round, bouncy, firm tits. Tits that could only belong to the infamous Bebe Stevens, who was on her back and falling off my brother's bed. Her loud moans increased in volume as Ike continued to pump into her. I felt my eye twitch as looked up and smiled, her face flushed.

"Hello Kyle," she said. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Ike, what the fuck are you doing?" I asked, ignoring Bebe and trying hard to hold myself back from ripping the Canadian off of the blonde.

"I'm doing Bebe," he said, grunting in between words. She screamed again, and he moaned in climax. "Get the fuck out."

I slammed the door behind me as I fled. Outside, I slammed my head against the door frame and crept into my room. Grabbing onto my house phone, I dialed Kenny's number.

"What do you want Ike?" the gruff voice on the other line retorted. "I'm not hooking you up with more weed. Get your own shit." I sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Oh, it' just you, Kyle."

"Ike does weed?" I asked, knowing my voice betrayed the concern that I felt.

"Fuck off, Kyle, what do you want?" Kenny's voice held more diction now as his disguise flicked away. God forbid my mother call and get a word in edgewise before she knew Ike was on weed.

"Kenny, what do you do when you like someone you shouldn't, but they're attached to somebody else?" I asked this in one breath, careful not to betray any emotion whatsoever.

"You're a fag for Stan, dude. You could just use the terms, 'I'm gay for my best friend.' I would totally catch your drift," Kenny said. I could hear him taking a drag off of what was probably a cigarette; Craig had really gotten Kenny fucked up during high school with the black market drugs.

"What do I do, dude?" I repeated. "Wendy told Stan she went to Florida on business but she's not really on business and now he's all mopey—"

"So go to Florida." Silence.

"What did you say, Kenny?" I asked, shock hitting me like ice water.

"Drive to Florida to find her. Satan knows you can't make it down there in one night. Stay in a few hotels. Get in his pants." Kenny sounded so sure and confident in himself; I almost hated to break his buoyancy with his plot. Kenny wasn't one to think logically until the last second.

"Kenny, are you insane? Why do I want to bring Stan to his girlfriend? Where am I going to get the money to get there?" I pulled my free hand through my hair out of frustration. Some part of me irresponsibly wanted me to even consider this plan as a brilliant alternative to festering in my own filthy mind of what I could be doing to Stan if he was tied up…

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It didn't work.

The line was dead by the time I got back to paying attention to Kenny. When I called him again, he didn't answer, and I figured he must have been trying to explain himself to me while I was getting hard over Stan's greased up body.

Not that I had never seen Stan's greased up body before.

Regardless, I now had a rough idea on what to do about my problem, even if it meant spending a ridiculous amount of money on a ridiculous chase.

Maybe I would take Bebe up on her offer of going out later. Thank God for whores.


End file.
